


She'll Clip Your Vulgar Tongue

by AnathemaAuthoress



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: (not a trans story just pussy kink), Comedy, Cursed Jaskier | Dandelion, Eventual Smut, Faeries - Freeform, Geralt has a scent fetish, Jaskier being a little perverted, Jaskier falls in love too easily, Jaskier gets a vagina, Jaskier is a slow learner, M/M, Porn with little plot (eventually), Scent Kink, Sexual Tension, bisexuals, boy pussy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-16
Updated: 2020-02-18
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:34:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22746385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnathemaAuthoress/pseuds/AnathemaAuthoress
Summary: "It had been bad enough when Geralt’d been forced to watch Jaskier’s foolish attempts at courting. Witless grinning, cheap pick-up lines more hollow than his verse, the strumming of the lute like a twittering spring bird begging for a nest."Jaskier gets frisky with a faerie and has to pay for trying to leave her behind.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 33
Kudos: 376





	1. A curse

It had been a long trek from the last city toward the next. The weather was fair, a gentle wind billowed over tree tops and made branches rustle, bend this way and that, and appear to dance.

Sadly, that was all the more enjoyment Jaskier could take of his environment. His feet hurt, because despite their years of knowing each other, Geralt scarcely saw fit to scoot his fine ass up the saddle to make a little room. What was more, the bard could see that his unrelenting strumming was wearing thin on fragile nerves, but he kept at it to keep the boredom from inlaying on his own. If he didn’t sing, what else would he do? 

Perhaps if the witcher had been more keen on conversation the matter might have resolved itself, but as it stood Geralt’s curt responses had dwindled to grunts hours ago and from that to little more than sighs of frustration.

Put simply, Jaskier was drawn out with nothing to do. He was tiring of his own voice after a while though, and so, at long last, he slung his lute over his shoulder and stood from the log where they’d sat to cook meat–snake caught the day before–and break bread–not from Jaskier’s pants, _this time._

The bard lifted his arms over his head and the knots in his spine rippled and popped with the chattering, satisfying patter of rocks skittering over cobblestone. “Mmm, I’m going to have a look around,” Jaskier said, though Geralt hadn’t asked, nor in fact even glanced up.

Geralt poked at the slightly burned meat that lingered on the spit over the fire, quietly debated having a bit more.

“Did you hear? I’m going to, uh, check out the premises. Look for water, or interesting rocks. Maybe an attentive tree that looks even remotely intrigued by what I have to say?” Jaskier tilted his head to the side, placed his hands on hips, and leaned down until he was invading Geralt’s personal space, and just beginning to enter his line of sight.

“That’s fine,” Geralt growled, then almost indigently threw out his hand, as if to smack the bard, but Jaskier dodged just in time to watch the fingers wrap around the snake again.

Jaskier sighed, almost pitifully. “Right, fine. I’ll go by myself then.” With that he awkwardly overstepped the log and began to trudge into the surrounding foliage. 

Geralt rolled his eyes. It was probably unwise to let the man meander alone, but it was still light out. Even still, his body twitched with paranoia. So he agreed with himself that he’d finish eating first, and babysit after.

Unaware of how little the witcher thought of his self-preservation, Jaskier wandered idly into the forest. He wasn’t really looking for anything in particular, just something to inspire him or at the least take his mind off the five-days journey they still had ahead of them.

Expecting little more than an oddly shaped rock or perhaps a small, cute animal, Jaskier was very surprised indeed by what he found instead.

The sound of water drew him in. He could hear the babble of a flowing stream creeping through the thick of the foliage. The echo of it made his skin itch, made him too aware of the sweat built up on his skin and the grimy scratch of his unwashed cloth. 

He hurried toward the sound, but stopped short when he first heard, then saw through a clearing, a woman humming. 

Jaskier slowed his pace and moved forward more slowly. He pressed his weight to the thick trunk of a tree and peered around it. 

Beyond, he saw a curvaceous form. A voluptuous woman with waves of golden hair, pert upturned breasts, and hips twice Jaskier’s own. The sight of her triggered a deep arousal in the bard at once. She was very much seamed of the cloth of his tastes, the sort of garment he wanted to drape warmly over his thighs. 

He was taken in by her visage, but torn by his own sense of modesty. He looked away and bit his lip. _She deserves privacy,_ he thought. _Yet, if she is unaware, is her decency in peril?_

If a tree were to fall in the woods, would it make a sound? What if he pretended not to hear it? This was the sort of quandary he toiled with as his eyes flittered toward and away from the view of this elegant creature, languidly wading through the stream. 

His conundrum was interrupted, and thoroughly decided for him, when a deep, but quiet voice hissed in his ear.

“That’s not a mortal woman,” Geralt said.

Jaskier nearly jolted out of his skin. Then he whisper-shouted, “What?”

“She’s faeriefolk. A woodland guardian. Don’t bother her and she won’t bother you.”

“No, I mean, what are you doing here? So suddenly!”

Geralt shrugged. Then his eyes darted deliberately down toward Jaskier’s crotch, then up toward the faerie in the clearing. “Put it out of your mind.”

Jaskier flushed and pressed his thighs together. He felt a powerful spike of lurid humiliation. “I haven’t anything on my mind.”

“Hmm,” Geralt hummed in disbelief.

“I just wanted a wash,” he protested.

“Then wait.”

“I will!” Jaskier said defensively. Then a wicked grin spread on his features. “Then I think I’ll say hello!”

“Don’t.”

“Hello? Is someone there?” Came the faerie’s voice from the stream. 

Jaskier’s smile broadened and he boldly pushed through the brush to show himself. “Oh, what a surprise! Hello there!”

***

“Ooh!”

“Yes, yes!”

“Ugh,” groaned Geralt. He buried his head in his hands and rubbed his palms against his eyes to try to disperse his headache. 

It had been bad enough when he’d been forced to watch Jaskier’s foolish attempts at courting. Witless grinning, cheap pick-up lines more hollow than his verse, the strumming of the lute like a twittering spring bird begging for a nest. 

The only thing worse had been seeing the faerie fall for it. Giggling, touching the bard’s arm. It had caused Geralt’s chest to swell with frustration, because while faeries were empty-headed and easily amused, they were also powerful, vengeful creatures. The witcher had tried to express as much, but Jaskier had been determined to have himself smothered between those peachy thighs. 

The witcher had tried to explain it was only a glamour, but that hadn’t seemed to matter.

Geralt looked to Roach for solidarity. The horse merely grazed beside him.

“Would it be so much for them to be _quieter?”_ Geralt questioned.

Roach remained unbothered.

“Am I overreacting? Surely I’ve never been this loud.”

At this Roach finally glanced up and provided what Geralt took to be a rather pointed look. 

“Fine. I’ll give him a bit longer. But if they don’t finish up, I’m leaving him behind.”

Eventually, the two did complete their encounter. Jaskier came stumbling out of the trees, hair dismayed, wearing only his longjohns and reaking of sex.

He staggered over to Roach and unclipped a canteen from her saddle. He took three long gulps before he replaced it and turned giggling to Geralt.

“And you said it would be a bad idea!”

“Mm,” Geralt grunted, he bit his tongue to keep from saying more. 

“I think I might love her,” Jaskier swooned. “Already I hunger again for her warm embrace.”

“How tragic,” Geralt said sarcastically. “We set off in the morning.”

“Perhaps she could–“

“No,” Geralt said firmly. He could put up with a lot, but he would not entertain playmates on his trips.

To his relief, Jaskier didn’t push any harder. Instead he shrugged. “Just as well, I suppose. Inspiration! A muse of longing to carry with me to our next destination.”

***

As it turned out, content as the bard was to move on with his passions turned to prose, the faerie was not so inclined to agree.

“I want to come with you,” she whined, too much like a child for Geralt’s comfort. He prefered his lovers with a bit more fire. 

“I’m sorry, darling,” Jaskier said wistfully. He was enjoying the melodrama a bit too much and already Geralt was tired of it.

“You said you loved me,” she seethed. Her high whine took on a deeper, more sinister tone. 

“I do,” Jaskier said, and, to his credit, sounded earnest.

Yet to her it did not seem to land. “Liar,” she spat. “You’re the same as all the others. Human men are rotten!”

Geralt put his hand on his blade hilt, just in case.

Jaskier took her hands. “My dear, it is just that we have a mission. One day I can–“

“Silence,” she growled. Her teeth, once pearly and round, took on a more pointed, yellowish quality. 

“Oh!” Jaskier dropped her hands and took a nervous step back.

“Cocks the lot of you,” she said. Her eyes, once glittering blue, became pure pupil and began to pull up at the edges like a cat’s. “You don’t see women, you see a warm hole. My body is not a toy!”

“See, you’ve gone and upset her,” Geralt said, as though he had seen this coming. He drew out his blade, prepared to intervene and end this charade.

However, he was surprised when the faerie suddenly transformed. In a flash of light she became her true form. Wirey, peachy orange imp, with purple wings, fangs like knives, hair like sheep’s wool, and long spindly fingers. She pointed at Jaskier with one of those digits and screamed, “See how you like it!”

Then she was gone. Geralt blinked in shock and looked around. Nothing was brewing, nothing had changed. Jaskier still stood beside him, looking very much alive. 

The only thing that had changed, to Geralt’s present awareness, was the look on the bard’s face. 

The charming features were twisted up, eyes wide, brows bent downward, lips parted, and jaw slightly slack. 

Geralt expected him to say something oblivious or obtuse like, “ _Is that what I was fucking!?”_

Instead, the bard’s lips quivered and he looked on the verge of tears. “Geralt,” he said slowly, “I…”

“What? What’s wrong?”

Jaskier brought a shaking hand to the front of his slacks and whimpered. “I haven’t got a dick!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ehhh! I debated posting this right now, but I'm making good progress so here we go. This will probably be four parts by the way its going. I'll have the next part up soon–poor Jaskier tries to handle it the best he can. Geralt too ;)


	2. A scent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The sensations and scents of Jaskier's new condition start to wear on both traveling companions.

It seemed the faerie had stolen the bard’s member. To be more specific, Jaskier’s dick had been replaced. The space where his manhood had once hung, shapely and proud and just a little overeager, was now smooth save for the nest of hair that decorated the area. Much lower, closer to where his sack and perineum had rested, a plush slit and labia had formed. 

The rest of his body was unchanged, but Jaskier could feel the foreign exchange and he wasn’t sure if he should panic or grieve. 

It took Geralt a beat longer to understand the full extent of the situation. It wasn’t until Jaskier shifted, almost as if his undergarments had ridden up, that Geralt caught on. “She...you have a…”

“Cunt! Yes, Geralt. She’s stolen my prick and given me a cunt!” Jaskier’s voice seemed to fly out of him in a sudden surge of horror. “Who does that!? Why? I-I...and she! How dare?!”

“Oh,” Geralt said. He put his sword away and shuffled in discomfort. “Yeah, that’s, um, unfortunate.”

“Unfortunate?” Jaskier squealed. “How do I fix it, Geralt?”

“Oh, right.” The witcher tried not to think too hard about what was going on and instead filed through his brain for information. “Yeah, that’s probably a curse. We’ll have to meet the conditions of the curse to break it.”

“Conditions? What conditions?” Jaskier tugged idly at his slacks, almost as if hoping he could reconjure his proper parts simply by reshaping his trousers. 

Geralt shrugged, no more privy to the faerie’s intentions than Jaskier. “I don’t know.”

“Okay,  _ or?” _

“Or we find a witch.”

Jaskier’s eyes rolled up toward the heavens, then he twirled in a circle, apparently trying to unwind his distress physically. “No more fucking witches!”

Geralt, despite his warnings, felt genuine pity for Jaskier. “The place we’re headed, they have a healer. Maybe they’ll know something of unraveling such a curse?”

Jaskier seemed to calm at this and that made the witcher’s nerves ease too. “Yes? Oh, fantastic! Yes, we will ask the healer.”

Geralt was not confident that would do any good, but they still had several days to travel and it would buy him time to think of something else. He reached out and patted Jaskier awkwardly on the shoulder. “It’ll be fine.”

Jaskier smiled nervously. “I hope so.”

***

At first things were normal between them. Jaskier followed quietly behind Roach’s ambling motions, kept his hands tensed around the strap of his lute he carried on his back. The only thing that was really strange was how quiet he was. It seemed reasonable given the situation, since the witcher didn’t imagine he’d feel too talkative either. However, while Geralt didn’t know it, the bard was not so overcompensating. It wasn’t so much out of shame that his silence was born, but rather from a curious nature. He was trying to slowly process the sensation of his condition. 

In the beginning, once the initial horror wore off, the state presented itself as a sense of lightness. Jaskier didn’t feel more, as much as he didn’t feel anything much at all. He was accustomed to the shift and shuffle of his sack. The sway and bounce of his prick adjusting, step by step, against his garments. It wasn’t as if he was regularly aware of every minute motion of his cock, but rather that he became hyper-aware of the absence. It was both obscure and oddly comfortable in fact. Of course, that altogether left Jaskier feeling more frazzled.

Then there was the itch. The usual, casual prickle that would beckon him to adjust from time to time, especially in heat or prolonged wear of his tighter breeches. He was used to that feeling, the almost pulsing twitch that would creep up on the underside of his jewels. For a long time it too was gone, then to his despair, it returned in a new and frustrating fashion.

That same prickle, bastardized and spread out along his newly installed lower lips, not unlike perky testicles, but not as obstructive. He could have just scratched at it, and nearly did, but…

He didn’t want to touch it. He wasn’t really certain what he was most afraid of, making it real, or maybe accidently inciting something he wasn’t prepared for, or finding it painful or some such thing. The possibilities were endless. It just seemed safer not to.

Of course, the longer he left it, the more it did spread, all on its own. The tickle turned to something deeper, as if it had crawled up inside of him. He tried to step down on the cobbles harder, to shake the feeling loose, but that only made it worse.

Then the feeling changed, gradually. Little by little he became acutely aware of the internal path. The un-ness of the organ seemed to defy itself and suddenly asserted its presence. The walk was long, Jaskier’s thighs had been rubbing together and the itch had maddened him a bit. It took far too long for him to realize what the tingle had transformed into.

It was almost a hot sear. A burn running from tense thighs all the way to his stomach.  _ Like erotic food posioning _ , he thought, and chuckled weakly on the outside.

He tried to convince himself he was sweating, but after about twenty minutes it became impossible to ignore the thick glide of moisture making him aware of the seam that had been created on his body. His face was hot and he swallowed thickly when his brain honed in on the reality. He was wet. He looked at the back of Geralt’s head. They usually moved more or less in lockstep, but Jaskier had allowed Roach to move ahead for a semblance of privacy Geralt had been happy to grant.

The sway of white hair across broad shoulders had the usual effect on Jaskier’s chest, but the uneven bounce of the witcher ass, left to right upon his steed,  _ that  _ awakened something much hotter.

Jaskier felt something low, something internal  _ spasm. _ “Oh,” he moaned softly and stopped walking. It wasn’t a hard sensation, nothing ripping or absurd, but it was powerful and foreign and it felt so good it sent blood flooding all over and his skin lit up as if sunburned. He was used to the heat rushing downward, but this dispersion was foreign and disrupted the breath he had been so carefully controlling.

The bard didn’t realize until that moment how tense and controlled he’d been. He had been walking carefully, as if afraid of cracking an imaginary egg in his grip. When he exhaled and grabbed his stomach, tried to gather himself, that tension flooded outward and he felt a fresh wave of heat and prickling, like sparkles shining over his nerves, flickering and fleeting, but unyielding.  _ I’m wet, _ Jaskier thought with an uncharacteristically high level of panic.

Then Roach stopped as Geralt pulled her to a halt and turned her around. “Are you alright?” The witcher looked his companion up and down. He had heard the bard’s footsteps ease and then vanish and there was a worry apparent on his face.

Jaskier held up his hand and offered a tense smile. “Yeah,” he said, almost wheezing. “It’s just, yeah. It’s really weird.” He placed his hands on his hips and looked around at the surrounding grasslands, at trees, at anywhere but the witcher’s face. He was irrationally terrified the other man would see a puddle on his pants, but he wasn’t _ that _ drenched. It was just unease and paranoia. “Just tiring out faster than usual I think,” he only half lied. It felt like he was swimming, drowning in heat and a tantalizing squelch between his thighs. How did women endure it? Jaskier felt his respect for them further grow, though he was loathed to admit it, as he figured that was somewhat the point. Though, in a twist of irony, he struggled to draw any meaningful line between arousal and love.

“Do you, you know.” Geralt looked around, tugged lightly on Roach’s reigns. “Would you like to ride? Up here?”

Jaskier felt his jaw open before the words came out. He could count on one hand the number of times he’d been allowed to ride Roach–barring immediate threat of death–and he was surprised by the generous offer. He almost declined, on principal, but his legs felt shivery and weak with this new, powerful clenching warmth. He nodded. “Yeah, yes, thank you.”

The witcher offered his hand and Jaskier took it gratefully, allowed himself to be pulled up to sit on the back of the saddle. His hands fell on Geralt’s shoulders reflexively and with his legs splayed over the leather saddle, he felt with a fresh intensity a wave of almost violent want. He let out a rattling breath. He’d never struggled so much to contain his arousal. Jaskier found beauty in many things, and Geralt he took special exception to, but he hardly walked around with his rod constantly poking out! 

“Comfortable?” Geralt asked.

Jaskier’s lashes fluttered and he was grateful to be facing his friend’s back. The soft, gentle consoling nature of Geralt’s voice was at once comforting, arousing, and infuriating. Why couldn’t he be this nice all the time? It could be because of the ailment, but Jaskier’d had others. He couldn’t shake the idea that Geralt was being chivalrous in light of certain elements and Jaskier was inclined to lecture him on not treating women like their sex was somehow fragile. For that matter, he knew there were those that did not conform to what was between their legs and he felt as though he needed to speak on their behalf. “I’m fine, but I was fine down there on the ground. My state doesn’t make me less capable, Geralt. Nor more or less feminine than ever I’ve been,” he replied, slightly defensive.

Geralt spared him a glance over the shoulder, but there was no cruelty in his gaze. “I know,” he said softly. “But it’s new. I don’t want…”

“Want what?” Jaskier asked, brows crinkled.

“Mmm,” Geralt grunted uncomfortably and looked ahead. “I was worried it might be painful.”

A fluttering, rapid reverberation like the wing beats of butterflies in his guts twisted Jaskier up further. “Oh. No, it’s alright,” he said. He had to blink a few times, rapidly, to make sure he wasn’t dreaming. Geralt was  _ worried _ about him. That painted the whole matter in a very different, such more intriguing light. “I’m alright.”

This seemed to relieve Geralt and the bard saw and felt some of the tension flee the witcher’s shoulders. Of course, it was only then that Jaskier realized he was still holding on to the larger man. He thought to let go, but Geralt said nothing, so they rode this way for a while, quiet, both a little taken aback.

For Geralt’s part, there was pity and concern about any potential paths to correcting Jaskier’s curse. There was also the uncomfortable knowledge that between his friend’s legs–a region Geralt tried to consider as little as possible–there now rested not just a rather appealing sex, but also a breaker of limits he had once silently set for himself.  _ I can’t fuck Jaskier,  _ he’d thought casually, sensibly on many occasions,  _ he’s got a cock. I don’t want that. _

Obviously that had been enough to contain any random, completely unfounded impulses he’d ever whimsically had over the years in moments of isolation or fondness with or for the bard. Yet, that was no longer the case and he was trying desperately not to consider that more than fleetingly.

Sadly, it became an almost impossible task when Jaskier joined him on Roach, because at the proximity he could feel the other man’s heat radiating against his back. Could feel the gentle knocking of their legs with every bump in the road. Worst of all was the  _ scent _ .

It was robust and should have been unpleasant, but it wasn’t. At all.

Though the witcher would never admit it, under threat of neither cuff nor blade, part of him had only been drawn to Jaskier in the first place due to scent.

He had only tolerated Jaskier’s unrelenting persistence out of a combination of curiosity and quiet, unspoken attraction to the aura and smell the man gave off.

It was almost vulgar to think about, made Geralt feel more animal than man, but it was true. Though he’d come to tolerate the bard both for and in spite of many of his wiles, the fact remained that instinct still had a very powerful hold on the witcher.

And while Geralt smelled of onion and dirt, leather and venison, Jaskier smelled like chamomile, and berries, and expensive wines. Like decadence. 

Now, come to further burden him, was this heady musk. A lusty allure which Geralt had come to associate with feminity and passion, which left a tang on the back of his tongue, and which further still seemed to heighten those frivolous scents of overly sweet abundance that belonged to Jaskier alone. 

Geralt found himself shamefully coveting that ripened fruit, and badly wanted to taste. 

What a heinous sensation to combat. He felt almost enslaved to it, kept trying to hold his breath. He almost wished Jaskier would ramble, give him something else to think about. Normally it would have been blessed silence, but in the crux of sex-scented air Geralt was on the verge of begging for the bard to just  _ say something. _

“Sing for me,” he said suddenly, sharply. He felt Jaskier jolt at the sound and it unleashed a flurry of scent and primal instinct. Geralt felt his leather pants tighten uncomfortably. 

“What?” Jaskier was rightfully confused, Geralt never asked for music, he usually didn’t have to. The witcher could almost feel the bard’s gaping expression.

“Traveling music,” he said as casually as he could manage. “It’s quiet today.”

“Oh, yes. It is. Sure. Ooph!” Jaskier nearly toppled off the horse as he rustled around to grab his lute. It took him a moment to find a note he liked and then he started singing something new he’d composed about rolling hills and beautiful women.

The withdrawn hands and sound were just relaxing enough that Geralt was able to get himself under control. Jaskier focused on his song instead of his body, and in this way they managed to make it through the first day of the journey without complication.

Of course, by the time they set up camp, Geralt was practically vibrating with unspent energy. Holding himself together around Jaskier’s scent–which had become stronger and somewhat stale, though no less alluring–was becoming increasingly difficult. Yet, he knew he didn’t have any other choice. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the kind words on chapter one! Chapter three (aka: the porn chapter) may take a little longer to update because it'll be the longest one yet, but Jaskier will explore himself and continue to seek the cure! Will he find it? Dundundun...
> 
> In the meantime, I hope you liked the update. Let me know your thoughts in the comments <3


End file.
